Free Read — A Game of Football

This story revisits Steven and Hugh, from O’Carolan’s Seduction, and was written to a prompt on Live Journal from Mariewig. A football game offers plenty of scope for some cross cultural misunderstandings.
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“Whoo!” Steven leaped half off the couch, pumping his fist, before settling back down on the cushion. The outburst startled Hugh, who had come in from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn. A small shower of white puffs hit the floor.

“What was that all about?” Hugh knelt to pick up the mess. Steven joined him, one eye on the television, one eye on the floor.

“Denver just made the first down!”

“And this is exciting because…?” Hugh watched the white, orange and blue figures on the screen pile into the green and yellow figures, and then everyone scrambled to their feet and wandered around a bit before lining up into more or less tidy rows and starting over. He, Steven, and the remaining popcorn settled on the couch, though Steven did not lean back into Hugh’s welcoming arm. He sat on the edge of the couch, intent on the play.

“Because they were third and seven!” Steven shoved a handful of kernels into his mouth and wiped his greasy fingers on his kilt. The gray camo was due for a trip through the laundry, but Hugh was still irritated.

“I brought serviettes. And quit speaking gibberish. What did they do?”

“They moved the ball more than a total of ten yards within their allotted number of tries.” Steven dragged his eyes from the game to stare at Hugh. “The game is usually on at Clancy’s — haven’t you picked up the basics?”

“The screen is above my head and half the time the sound is off. I can’t stop and watch it.” Not only that, but half the time it was set to association football, which the Americans insisted on calling soccer. Hugh didn’t watch much of that, either. Sitting down during a game was a rarity for him — the patrons always required more beer. “Assume I don’t know.”

“Okay — each team gets four tries, downs, to move the ball ten yards, and if they do make the ten yards, the count starts over…” More yelling, this time “Ohhh!” with the falling note of disappointment, and now the green and yellow team had the ball. “That was a turnover; Green Bay got the interception.”

Hugh thought Steven was a great guide to the intricacies of American life, but frankly, his explanations for this game were confusing, punctuated as they were with screaming and the occasional curse. At halftime, Hugh seized the opportunity to ask the questions on his mind. “Why is the ball that odd shape?”

“No, though I suppose with the expense of a stadium, you’d want the smaller field, not one hundred-thirty by eighty meters, though it varies. And you keep mentioning goals, but where’s the goalie?”

“There is no goalie. The defensive line is supposed to keep the other team from scoring.”

“I suppose that’s why they keep crashing into one another.” No goalie?

“Riiiight.” Hugh had confused Steven into silence at other times, though the urbane musician usually could piece together what Hugh wanted to know.

“That’s dead sexy, you know.” Neither the game nor the marching band had much allure for Hugh. Though he was willing to absorb a certain amount of the local color for Steven’s sake, he’d really had about enough.

“What?” Steven paused in mid bite of the last of the popcorn.

“Well, yes, all those big men in tight pants squashing each other.” Hugh took Steven’s hand and slipped greasy fingers into his mouth. He could lick the butter off, keep Steven from spreading the mess, and divert him all at once. Hugh swirled his tongue over knuckles, suddenly getting a great deal more of Steven’s attention than he’d had for the last hour. “I imagine they rather enjoy some of it, even if they are about twice my size.”

“Might be awkward, getting chubbed up out there.” Hugh slid Steven’s fingers back into his mouth between comments.

“And they’re wearing cups — that would be awkward.” Steven hadn’t glanced back at the telly. Good.

“They don’t go for the total freedom, not the way you do.” Hugh had discovered exactly what Steven did not wear under his kilts back on their first date. “A pity.” He nibbled the pads of Steven’s fingers, callused from the cello strings and his other instruments. “If I squashed against you and got you hard, you’d at least enjoy it.”

“I’m enjoying it now.”

There was indeed a tilt in the kilt.

Hugh slid to his knees and wormed between the coffee table and Steven’s knees. “Let’s see. Ah, yes.” Flipping back the camo twill exposed everything of Steven’s that signaled his enjoyment — Hugh folded the fabric so it wouldn’t fall forward into his face. He teased the head of Steven’s cock with the tip of his tongue. “This game requires downs, you said?” He slipped his lips down the shaft, taking his time, coming up equally slowly. “Was that first down?”

“Take as many downs as you like.” Steven leaned back against the couch for the first time since the game had started.

“I think I’ll need a lot.” Hugh took second down, third, but did not punt. Steven cheered him on, no pom poms but quite a lot of moaning, muttered exclamations and sighs. His version of a turnover would require lube, so Hugh continued his play, adding gentle caresses and soft nibbles, before settling into a driving rhythm that would have carried the ball up and down the field several times.

Steven cried out, spurting, and Hugh held him tightly through his climax, his cries of pleasure mixing with the crowd noise from the television.